April was in full bloom in Washington, D.C. A gentle
breeze rustled through branches budding with tender green.
Forsythia flowered in great, showy bursts of yellow.
Daffodils, tulips and crocuses sprang from pots and
planters on almost every stoop, while tourists from around
the world strolled the Tidal Basin under canopies of
blooming cherry blossoms.
The graceful, Federal-style town house just off
MassachusettsAvenue stood ready to greet the spring.
Windows scrubbed clean of winter grime sparkled in the
afternoon sunshine. The front door gleamed with a fresh
coat of cinnabar paint. The discreet brass plaque set
beside the door had been polished to a loving shine.
The plaque identified the town house as home to the
offices of the president's Special Envoy. Most Washington
insiders knew that the Special Envoy was one of those
meaningless positions created several administrations ago
to give a wealthy campaign contributor an important-
sounding title and an office in the nation's capital.
Only a select few were aware that the Special Envoy's
offices occupied just the first floor of the town house.
Fewer still knew that the other floors served as the
headquarters and home base of a covert government agency.
An agency whose initials comprised the last letter of the
Greek alphabet.An agency whose operatives were sent into
the field only as a last resort, when all other government
remedies had failed.
One of OMEGA's agents was preparing to go into the field
now. The director had yanked her out of New York and was
personally conducting her mission pre-brief.
A former operative himself, Nick Jensen was the owner of a
string of outrageously high-priced watering holes for the
rich and famous. His international contacts β and hefty
contributions to several presidents' campaign chests β
made the tall, tanned sophisticate a natural choice for
Special Envoy. His years as a field operative gave him the
experience and edge to take over as director of OMEGA.
Initially, Nick had chafed at being tied to a desk.
His subsequent marriage to Mackenzie Blair, OMEGA's chief
technical adviser, had reconciled him β somewhat β to his
current duties. He felt the weight of those
responsibilities now as he clicked a remote and brought up
a slide on the floor-to-ceiling screen dominating OMEGA's
high-tech Control Center.
"This is the Star of the East."
Jordan Colby, code name Diamond, slid her half glasses to
the tip of her aristocratic nose. A one-time model turned
eyewear designer, she studied the oval-cut emerald with a
coolly assessing eye.
"Quite a rock. I've read about it. Nine hundred-plus
carats, isn't it?"
"Nine hundred and seven," Nick confirmed. "It was mined in
Zambia in 1963 and purchased by the then sultan of D'han
for a cool five million. The current sultan presented it
to his bride as a wedding gift."
The next slide was a digitized security-camera shot of the
sultana entering the Palm Beach soiree.
"I've read about her, too," Diamond commented.
"She's come a long way since graduating from Yale."
"Where she happened to share a dorm room with the
president's sister-in-law," Nick added dryly.
With a slither of silk crepe, Diamond uncrossed her legs
and tipped her boss a droll look over the rim of her
glasses. "Is that why OMEGA got handed this op? Silly me,
I thought it had something to do with the millions of
barrels of oil we import from D'han each year."
"Let's just say the president is extremely displeased that
the wife of a friend and ally sucked in a lungful of
benzilate gas at a charity event held on American soil and
woke up twenty minutes later minus her wedding present."
"And that's the only item that was taken? The Star of the
East?"
"The only item."
Shifting in his seat, Nick studied the operative he'd
assigned this mission. Jordan still looked and carried
herself like the model she'd once been. Long-legged,
slender, she surveyed the world through gold-flecked amber
eyes framed by a mane of shoulder-length auburn hair.
As Nick knew all too well, however, external appearances
could be and often were deceiving. His gaze settled
briefly on the logo embedded in one lens of the half
glasses perched on the tip of her nose. That tiny diamond
butterfly was more than a trademark. It represented the
brutal cocoon the woman known to the world as Jordan Colby
had emerged from.
The details were sketchy. Diamond never talked about her
past. Only a few trusted insiders with access to her
highly confidential background dossier knew she'd once
laid into her stepfather with a tire iron and escaped into
the icy night, a bruised and frightened fifteen-year-old.
The dossier included only vague references to where or how
she'd lived until she burst into the limelight as a sultry-
eyed runway model for a top New York designer some years
later. After several seasons under the lights, she'd opted
out of modeling to design high-end eyewear. Her jeweled
sunshades and reading glasses now sold for more than three
grand a pop.
Nick had recruited her to work for OMEGA. He'd trained her
himself, knew her lethal skills. He also knew the stakes
for this particular mission.
"We're talking more than oil and emeralds here, Diamond.
We're talking a possible link to a man suspected of
laundering billions in drug money."
Another click brought up a glossy PR photo of an
internationally renowned psychotherapist and self-styled
guru of Greene Tranquility, a multimillion-dollar industry
that promoted the healing power of emeralds.
"Ahhh," Jordan murmured, studying the boyish face that
smiled back at them from behind a lectern.
"I should have guessed Bartholomew Greene would be
involved in this. He has a thing for pretty stones the
same color as his name."
"More than a thing. Greene tried to buy the Star on two
separate occasions. He also tried to purchase the 600-
carat Patricia Emerald, currently residing in the American
Museum of Natural History in New York."
Nick zoomed in for a head-and-shoulders shot. "According
to what we've dug up so far, Greene was born Bartholomew
Crynyk. He reportedly suffered from epileptic seizures as
a boy. During one of the seizures, his grandmother draped
a rough-cut Russian emerald around his neck. The fit
subsided. Miraculously, he claims. He believes the gem's
soothing qualities cured him and he became an instant
convert. Eventually he even changed his name to reflect
his absolute belief. He now preaches a combination of
transpersonal meditation and stone therapy as a remedy for
every illness."
Diamond's lip curled into the closest thing to a sneer her
perfect features could achieve. She didn't comment, but
Nick guessed what she was thinking. There were some
sicknesses only a tire iron could cure.
"We theorize Greene's fixation with emeralds was what got
him into the money-laundering business," he
said. "Colombian mines produce the finest-quality emeralds
in the world. Greene requires a steady supply of stones to
sell to his millions of followers. The deals he's
negotiated with sources in Colombia look legit on the
surface, but..."
"But we both know nothing's legitimate in that corner of
the world."
Frowning, Diamond hooked her reading glasses atop her
head. The graphite frames caught her hair back in a tumble
of red-gold.
"I take it you want me to infiltrate Greene's inner
circle, sniff out his system for helping his pals in
Colombia convert their drug dollars to pesos and, oh by
the way, retrieve the Star of the East."
"That about sums it up." Nick's tanned, handsome face
creased into a frown. "You won't be the first undercover
operative to attempt a penetration. DEA tried to insert an
agent last year. According to our friends in the
Department of Justice, he's dropped off the radar screen."
Diamond took the news with a nod. This wasn't her first
op. She understood the risks.
"I see why you pulled me in for this mission. I have the
perfect cover. I can approach Greene about a line of
glasses for his thousands of disciples."
"With a butterfly logo."
One delicate brow arched. "Of course. But done in emeralds
instead of diamonds."
"We've pulled together a detailed briefing on Greene's
Tranquility Institute in Hawaii. Floor plans, security
system, employees, a complete dossier on the master
himself. I've got Claire Cantwell standing by to brief you
on Greene's modus operandi. She'll act as your control for
this op. Also, the wizards in the field dress and
technology units have devised an interesting suite of
accessories to outfit you for this mission."
"Oh, Lord!" Diamond couldn't quite suppress a groan. "The
last time I went into the field, I carried enough
electronics to launch the space shuttle. I hope your wife
doesn't load me down like that on this op."
Nick merely smiled. Once chief of communications for
OMEGA, Mackenzie now served as technical adviser to a
loose conglomerate of governmental agencies that included
OMEGA. To Mac's delight, her electronic toy box had
expanded exponentially with her increased
responsibilities. When it came to high-tech gadgetry,
Nick's dark-haired, vivacious wife believed more was
better and too much was best.
He left Diamond with instructions to check in with him
when she'd completed her mission prep.
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